Bukowski Was An Asshole

Bukowski Was an Asshole

That's one of the reasons I love him..

If I'd known him I would have hated him too. 

Sure. He played it up sometimes.

He was a barfly . 

I love the film clips. B&W 

he's driving the beat up old bug.

The windshield is smashed in .

The Dashboard is taped together.

A door hangs by a hinge, but 

Bukowski coaxes the engine to purr

And they drive along hollywood near vine. 

Hank and the guy with a giant camera.

That dirty old man was his close up.

He is wearing a grin.

Smoking and drunk .

And he starts getting philosophical.

What I love is how he didn't rehearse.

It came...

It rolled...

Baby it was beautiful.

Sometimes I don't agree 

with a word he says

Others, I recognize 

Well, it's all bullshit.

In later clips , 

there 's color now---

1984 looks primordial yet dull

Orwell got the date wrong

Big Brother arrived late

Bukowski is gone.

I want to join him. 

A bottle of blackberry alone,

I watch the last footage caught.

Bukowski is still pretty shit faced.

His legs are still strong.

He's like a hundred years old !

But he is majestic.

He roars, bares his teeth,

kicks his wife.

Tiny as she is 

I know she provoked him.

Maybe he deserved it too.

Because he is being an asshole.

It's an ugly moment.

A marriage.

It's what you remember after it ends.

Bukowski was an asshole.

Yet I turn to his words .

They're still alive , and

I guess  it's been a very long time

I have gone to him for courage

Which I need

To face more of this.

Endurance, he says.

And I struggle on.

A blond I know says 

Bukowski gave her permission.

To write life, which is raw.

And ugly for girls.

Even worse for women.

But we ride it out

In a beater, a bike, a BMW...

What else can one do. ?

We don't hope for the best.

We will only be disappointed.

After all

In our way and, if nothing else,

We are the daughters of Bukowski.

He taught us about life.

He told us stories before bed.

He said : tell yours true 

You are you

Sorry, kid.

That's how it tumbles.

They say he sold out.

Because he didn't die alone,

in a cheap room 

Face down in a puddle of vomit.

As usual , 

they're wrong.

He rose. 

And that counts

When you are poor 

and scarred

When you are a

Nobody 

or less

I know. 

Sure. 

Bukowski was an asshole.

But if he were here

I'd stroke what was left of his hair

And kiss that big  head

Because he pulled  angels to earth

So he could write  poems for girls

He'll never know he had